


No Sense in Telling Me

by Harpokrates



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: ... - Freeform, I really don't know, M/M, weird dominance games?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-02-23 07:49:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23774866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harpokrates/pseuds/Harpokrates
Summary: Wolffe, Plo, their tangled relationship. Fifteen minutes.
Relationships: Plo Koon/CC-3636 | Wolffe
Comments: 11
Kudos: 104





	No Sense in Telling Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chameleonchanging](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chameleonchanging/gifts).



The General was twitching again. It was very subtle, very minor, and completely distracting.

"Stop that." Wolffe snapped.

Plo Koon looked at him, smiled, and very deliberately drummed his fingers across the table. Wolffe reached over without looking at him and pinned his hand flat against the dark metal.

"The Commander doesn't let me have any fun." Plo watched him, but didn't try to take his hand back.

"The Commander wants to get his work done."

"Bureaucracy."

"Battle reports." Wolffe disagreed. "Accounting for charge pack use. Ammo. Injuries."

"There weren't any injuries."

"Ocular broke his ankle on the terrain. I have half a mind to make him do this."

"Why don't you?"

"Stop asking me questions because you want to be distracted."

Plo was silent for a good five minutes, before a smirk curled across his face.

"What—"

Wolffe pressed a hand over his antiox mask. "Stop asking questions." He said firmly. "I should gag you."

"My, Commander, I didn't know you liked that sort of thing." Plo said, muffled behind Wolffe's hand.

"You can't even follow directions and keep quiet for ten minutes. Or follow battle plans," Wolffe tapped the datapad. "You think you can stand whatever weird shit they get up to in redlight holos?"

"Would you like it if I could?"

Wolffe exhaled. "Knock it off. Stop distracting me."

"So you would." Plo sounded remarkably pleased. Wolffe stood out of his chair and grabbed Plo's other hand, pressing it flat against the table.

"Keep it there." He sat back down and powered on the datapad.

"And—"

"No talking."

Kel Dor didn't have a mandible like humans did, and they didn't have teeth to click regardless, but Wolffe got the impression of Plo's jaw snapping shut. And now he was distracting himself, because he really liked it.

The next few minutes were a struggle to remain focused on his work, because Plo was right there, breathing quietly, and absolutely still.

"How far can this go?" Wolffe asked quietly, adding his digital chop to the file and sending it to the analysts. "You can answer that."

"How far do you want it to go?"

Wolffe rested his chin on his fist. "Would you blow me? If I asked?"

"Blow?" There was a huff of air, like a mangled harmonica: Plo blowing air through his mask.

"Are you making a joke?"

"I am making a joke." Plo clarified, focusing on Wolffe. "I would. If you asked."

Wolffe exhaled shakily. "Let's leave that on the table for now. Stand up?"

"Is that a question, or a command?"

"Stand up. And stop talking." 

Plo stood up.

"Keep your hands on the table."

Plo hunched over awkwardly to flatten his palms against the table. The heady rush of power went straight to Wolffe's head, and he had to close his eyes to stave off the sudden dizziness. He stood up, and walked past Plo—too close, because he could get away with that now, close enough to feel the brush of his roughspun robe against the rough synthetics of his officer greys—and locked the door.

He settled his hip against the table.

"Sit down."

Plo sat.

"Stand up."

Plo stood.

"Hands on your shoulders."

His hands went up, grazing the breadth of his broad shoulders.

"On your head."

Plo rested his hands on the crown of his head.

"Spin around." Wolffe grinned.

"Are you having fun?" Plo spun once.

"Did I tell you you could talk?" The words left him in a burst of air, all the air in his lungs, in fact. Wolffe twisted his hands together. "Answer that."

"No."

"No?"

"No, sir?" Plo raised a brow, looking for approval.

Wolffe crossed his leg over his opposite knee. "Yeah. Okay. For the next," he glanced at his watch and set a timer, "fifteen minutes, why don't you do what I say?"

Plo remained silent, his fingertips pressed to his head, watching Wolffe.

"You can talk." Wolffe blurted out.

"I would do what you say all the time." Plo's eyes softened under his goggles.

"No you wouldn't."

"I'd like to. I'd like to think about it."

"Fifteen minutes." Wolffe said firmly. "And if you don't want to do something, you don't have to. I don't want to push you."

"Do I need a safeword, Commander?" Plo looked at him slyly.

"How do you even know what that is?"

"Maybe I've been watching the holos?"

"You don't watch holos. Put your hands back on the table. And don't talk." He reconsidered. "Don't talk unless I ask you a question. You can answer. Got it?"

"Yes," Plo's face curled into a smirk, "sir."

Everytime he said it it felt like a fist going directly through Wolffe's chest. it was extremely wrong, not bordering on insubordination so much as smashing down the gates and setting the twisted metal on fire.

The table was about a meter wide by a meter long, with a holo projector set up in the middle of it. This room was meant for small strategy meetings and battlefield reports, things between singular Jedi and clone commanders. One person could sit at each side, but mostly what it meant was that Wolffe could reach across the table and grab Plo's shoulder, pulling him down to flatten against the table. He resisted minutely for a moment, then folded, his chest coming flush with the metal.

Wolffe had to close his eyes for a moment. He stood, and walked around to Plo's side, standing next to his hip. He gently reached out and rested a hand on Plo's back, just at the base of his spine.

"Alright?"

Plo nodded.

"Use your words."

"Yes." Plo's voice was a little strained. Wolffe couldn't tell if it was physical or emotional.

He dragged his finger slowly up Plo's spine, tracing each divor and vertebrae. Humans had thirty-three; Kel Dor only had twenty-eight, but they were thicker and longer. Plo Koon was big, and tall. It was enough that Wolffe couldn't easily carry him the way he carried his brothers. A little stressful, actually. It was one of the odd ways he envied Bly or Cody. Their Jedi could be easily moved if need be.

Wolffe spread his palm flat over Plo's ribs, midway up his back. He was rewarded with a slight inhale.

"Ticklish?" 

"A little sensitive."

"That's where you took that fall, isn't it?" If it was his own bruise, Wolffe would have pressed into it. "What color do you turn when you bruise?"

"Blue. Greenish. Same as a human. My blood is red too."

Wolffe closed his eyes and found Plo's shoulders. Rock hard, and not just from years of lightsaber combat.

"Little Gods, you're tense." Wolffe dug his fingertips into Plo's shoulder, trying to work away some of the tension. "Don't you ever relax?"

"That's a very funny thing for you of all people to be asking me."

"I'm made for it." Wolffe considered, then jumped in headfirst. "I don't like seeing you hurt. I just want to bundle you away somewhere safe, where you won't do stupid things because of your damn bleeding heart." Wolffe sighed, rubbing Plo's neck now, his hand curled around under his jaw. "I love watching you fight."

He glanced down at Plo. His head was pressed sideways into the table, his hands up near his Lavrren organs. He looked up at Wolffe from behind his goggles.

Wolffe closed his eyes and spoke before he lost his nerve. "Unbutton my jacket. Just the top one."

Plo made to rise, but Wolffe held him down by the shoulders. 

"With the Force." He clarified. Plo looked up at him, startled. Nothing on him moved, but Wolffe's button slowly slid itself out from the fabric, and the collar of his uniform jacket was rolled down and neatly flattened across his chest. He exhaled, not exactly trusting himself to speak. This wasn't, strictly speaking, sexual. Wolffe was hot enough that he could probably wander down to the hyperdrive and fuel the ship to Coruscant and back, and well, if he were wearing armor, he would be in some serious pain right about now, but it wasn't nearly so simply a feeling.

He pulled Plo's shoulders up, then directed him to sit. Sitting, his head was level with Wolffe's shoulders. Wolffe brushed his hands down the length of Plo's shoulders, then back up. He folded his thumbs into the hem of Plo's outer tunic, but brushed aside the idea. Instead, he stepped closer, so that he was standing inside Plo's thighs, and folded his arms around Plo.

"I like being taller than you." He murmured. "Hug me back."

Plo's arms came up around his waist, twisting in the fabric there.

"I'm too possessive, aren't I?"

"I don't think so." Plo's voice was further muffled by his chest.

"That's because you like it."

"I do."

The timer beeped, and they seperated. Wolffe straightened his jacket and fixed the top button, then retrieved his datapad.

"General." He saluted.

"Commander." Plo's eyes twinkled. "Sir."

Wolffe closed his eyes. "You're going to be the death of me."

"You'd enjoy every second of it."

He wasn't wrong. Not that Wolffe would ever admit it.

**Author's Note:**

> Blame chameleonchanging.
> 
> For the curious, helium burns red. Technically a species that breathes helium (or any noble gas) is impossible, because the noble gasses aren't reactive enough to exchange molecules with blood, but this is star wars so magic science and all. Anyways, a species with helium utilizing blood would bruise blue, like us.
> 
> Title is from New Order's Bizarre Love Triangle.


End file.
